SOCIAL  MENACE 
OF   THE   ORIENT 

WHITE  OR  YELLOW 


VOLUME  II 


JEAN  TURNER  ZIMMERMANN,  M.D. 


SOCIAL  MENACE 
OF  THE  ORIENT 

WHITE  OR  YELLOW 


VOLUME  II 


JEAN  TURNER  ZIMMERMANN.  M.D. 


Copyright.  1916-1921 

By 
J.  T.  Zimmermann 


/  earnestly  thank  every  man  and  woman  in 
Chicago,  the  United  States,  the  Orient  and  the 
Islands  of  the  Seas,  who  has  aided  me  in  my  beloved 
f°T  women  and  children. 

Jean  Turner  Zimmermann 


The  Author  and  three  little  Chicago  Sisters.     Their  father  is  an  invalid,  their 
mother  supports  the  family  by  working  in  a  restaurant. 


The  Social  Menace  of  the  Orient 


CHICAGO  and  NEW  YORK 

"Good-by,  Bertha,  take  care  of  yourself  and  be  a  good  girl ;  you'll  get 
on  fine,  I  know.  Good-by,  daughter,  wish  you  didn't  have  to  go,  but  you're 
going  to  a  friend  so  pa  and  I  won't  worry  and — Bertha,  don't  forget  to  say 
your  prayers,"  and  a  mother's  gaunt,  knotted  hand  waved  and  waved  until 
seventeen-year-old  Bertha  rounded  the  corner  of  the  little  green-hedged 
white  church — her  mother's  church  and  hers,  and  was  gone,  gone  to  Chi- 


BERTHA 

Mrs.  Ross  and  ex-Policeman  Dorsey  Chambliss  are  now  serving  a  five-year 
sentence  in  Joliet  Penitentiary  for  this  crime.  Through  popular  subscription, 
Chicago  paid  the  mortgage  on  the  Kansas  homestead. 

Chicago  Woman's  Shelter  cared  for  Bertha's  mother  during  the  long  trial 
following  her  death,  and  aided  in  caring  for  money  subscribed  in  payment  of 
mortgage  on  farm. 

cago  with  clean  heart  and  strong  arms,  to  earn  money  enough  through  the 
coming  winter  to  "keep  up"  the  little  left  behind  family  out  in  Kansas. 

On  the  porch  of  the  shabby  farmhouse  sat  the  father,  paralyzed,  help- 
less. Around  him  were  his  four  younger  children.  Two  years  of  suffer- 
ing had  almost  wrecked  his  hopes,  his  life.  Like  a  hunted  animal  his  eyes 
turned  this  way  and  that  across  the  frontage  of  his  little  farm.  Every 
acre  that  met  his  gaze  was  mortgaged.  Every  small  crib  of  grain  licked 

5 


over  by  coming  interest.  Life  looked  dark  to  the  father  that  morning,  but 
he  was  still  a  young  man  and  hope,  though  feeble,  wavered  in  his  heart. 
Then,  too,  Bertha  was  going  to  work  this  winter,  was  going  to  Chicago  to 
work  with  a  girl  friend  they  had  all  long  known.  Bertha  was  a  careful  girl, 
a  Sunday  School  and  church  girl.  She  would  save  her  money  and  in  the 
spring,  when  planting  time  came  around  again,  she  would  come  home  and 
buy  seed  and  clothing,  shoes  for  mother  and  the  boys,  and  then  she  and 
mother  would  run  the  farm  again  next  year.  Yes,  and  there  were  the 
cattle;  ten  of  them.  They  at  least  were  free  from  debt  and  their  sale  in 
the  spring  would  mean  the  saving  of  the  home  place  and — and  by  that  time 
he  would  be  well  again — could  walk,  work.  Had  not  the  doctor  promised? 
He  felt  better  right  now — and  had  not  mother  prayed,  believed?  Question 
after  question  miraged  the  brain  of  the  sick  man  as  he  sat  that  morning 
on  the  broken  porch  of  the  western  Kansas  farmhouse,  the  home  place  he 
and  mother  had  worked  so  hard  to  build  and  hold  and  each  question  was 
answered  by  strengthening  hope — yes,  all  would  finally  be  well. 

I  saw  her  first  in  the  shadows  of  Thirty-second  Street,  just  east  of 
Wabash  Avenue.  She  was  walking  hurriedly,  evidently  trying  to  avoid 
attention,  evidently  though  looking  for  someone.  She  was  very  young, 
almost  a  child  in  appearance,  not  over  seventeen.  Her  light  curly  hair 
was  clean,  well  combed,  and  the  gloss  of  youth  was  upon  it.  Her  form 
was  straight  and  trim,  her  eyes  clear  and  steady.-  A  uniformed  Negro 
policeman  sauntered  down  Wabash  Avenue.  The  girl  stepped  out  into 
the  light.  "Beg  pardon,  but  can  you  direct  me  to  an  express  office?  I 
want  to  have  my  trunk  sent  down  to  Sixty-third  Street ;  I  have  work  in  a 
restaurant  down  there."  "Why,  yessum,"  answered  the  officer.  "I  see  you 
are  a  stranger  in  Chicago,  come  this  way  and  I  will  show  you  an  express 
office."  "O,  well,  it  was  all  right  after  all,"  I  thought  to  myself  as  I  passed 
on.  "The  girl  knows  what  she  is  about.  She  had  common  sense  enough 
to  ask  a  policeman.  This  is  a  bad  part  of  the  city,  but  this  girl  knows  how 
to  care  for  herself." 

The  rest  of  the  story  is  public  property — written  in  the  records  of  a 
hundred  newspapers. 

Christmas  in  Chicago.  Over  on  Michigan  Avenue  a  great  cathedral 
chime  breathed  out  sweet  bronze  music.  "Joy  to  the  world,  a  Lord  is 
come,  a  Lord  is  come."  The  falling  snowflakes  caught  up  the  night  notes 
and  carried  them  restful,  healing  to  ten  thousand  hearts,  furred,  jeweled 
hearts  trailing  in  the  avenue  traffic  and  on  and  on  to  cold,  hungry  hearts  in 
the  sunken  side  streets  of  the  vast,  gray  near-by  city  district.  On  crept  the 
notes  of  the  music,  on  through  snow  crevices  and  up  to  an  attic  room,  past 
sickening  odor,  past  filth,  past  long  dead  ash  pile — "A  Lord  is  come,  a 
Lord  is  come."  A  white  face  stirred,  mirrored  a  moment's  intelligence. 
"The  church,  the  church,  home,  mother !"  A  broken  shadow  form  raised 
itself.  "A  pencil,  paper,  quick,  before  it's  dark."  A  thin  hand  touched  a 
filthy  paper  margin.  A  burnt-out  ash — a  note.  "Help,  I'm  dying."  Keep 
ringing,  church  bell,  keep  ringing!  One  more  effort  little  done-to-death 
.  girl  of  Kansas  farmhouse,  the  wind-swept  plains.  "Brace  up,  push  the  note 
through  that  snow  crevice,  quick,  through  the  broken  place,  push  hard, 
chance  it."  Darkness,  the  darkness  of  the  city,  the  darkness  of  the  Ross 
dive. 


"Bring  in  the  stretcher,  men,  this  girl's  done  for,  she'll  never  walk 
again."  The  police  officer's  voice  was  gruff,  but  his  eyes  were  full  and 
his  hand  was  tender  as  he  picked  up  the  twisted,  decaying  body  of  the 
seventeen-year-old  girl — the  girl  of  the  Kansas  farm  country  and  carried 
it  out  of  the  Negro  dive  and  over  to  that  vast  place  of  hurt  and  sick 
people,  the  Cook  County  Hospital. 

"Go,  mother,  go  quick,  to-night!  Bertha's  dying,  go,  bring  her  back, 
we'll  nurse  her  and  she'll  get  well  again  out  here  in  the  sunshine  and  the 
love."  The  sick  man's  eyes  stared  stone.  "O,  I  remember,  no  money — 
mother,  the  cattle,  ten  of  them,  mortgage  them,  go !"  A  month  later  out 
on  the  snow-wreathed  Kansas  plains,  out  by  a  little  green-hedged  white 
church,  a  Sunday  School  class  looked  up  into  the  star  faces  of  the  early 
evening  heavens,  up  toward  God's  eternal  habitation  and  chanted  to  twenty- 


old    Chinese    Den   at   2130-32    Armour   Ave.,    Chicago 

five  millions  of  American  women  a  hope — a  requiem,  "Lead  kindly  light — 
the  night  grows  dark,  lead,  lead." 

"What  finally  becomes  of  all  this  big  army  of  borderline  girls,  officer, 
these  young  'cruisers,'  who  half  naked  from  throat  to  breast-line  and 
from  ankle  to  knee,  walk  until  the  early  morning  hours  all  the  near-in  cen- 
tral streets  of  Chicago.  Why,  they  count  literally  into  the  thousands  on 
State  Street,  West  Madison  and  Clark  Streets,  Wabash  Avenue.  Every 
street  within  and  near  the  Loop  has  its  quota  and  the  congested  outlying 
neighborhoods  are  full  of  them.  Where  do  they  go,  these  little  dark  things ; 
when  twelve  o'clock,  one  o'clock  comes,  is  there  no  one  to  look  after 
them,  have  they  no  homes,  no  families?" 

The  police  officer  to  whom  I  was  speaking  was  himself  a  father  and 
after  a  moment's  hesitation  frankly  he  answered  me.  "O,  most  of  them 

7 


are  'spoiled'  as  we  police  say,  long  before  they  have  strolled  the  streets  a 
year.  Do  not  talk  to  me,  doctor,  of  the  parents  or  homes  of  these  girls. 
Why,  they  do  not  know  the  meaning  of  these  words.  In  the  first  place, 
half,  yes,  two  thirds  of  them  come  into  the  world  utterly  unwanted — hated. 
A  very  large  per  cent  of  them  come  tainted  from  birth  with  transmissible 
tendencies,  transmissible  disease.  Early  they  learn  to  despise  the  weakness 
of  their  parents,  the  uncertainty  of  their  care,  for  a  large  per  cent  come 
from  homes  so-called,  where  drink,  drugs,  desertion  have  played  havoc. 
To  be  sure,  many  of  these  girls  have  decent,  hard-working  mothers  who 
spend  their  days  in  factories,  their  nights  scrubbing  office  buildings.  Their 
children  are  turned  out  to,  in  a  great  measure,  shift  for  themselves.  They 
go  to  school  or  not  as  the  truant  officer  compels.  Anyhow,  they  spend 


Chicago's  First  Real  War  Baby.     Ward  of  Chicago  Woman's  Shelter 

their  evenings,  their  Saturdays,  their  Sundays  in  the  alleys  and  ash-heaps 
of  their  slum  neighborhoods.  At  twelve  years  of  age  they  know  more 
about  licentiousness,  can  use  as  much  vulgarity  of  speech  as  the  hardened 
criminal.  At  thirteen  these  girls  are  running  around  their  own  and  other 
neighborhoods  until  midnight,  and  at  fifteen  they  are  down  in  the  Loop, 
meanly  yet  flashily  dressed,  always  hungry,  always  hoping,  though,  with 
their  vamped  hair,  naked  breasts,  and  the  thinnest  of  clothes  to  'stick'  some 
'green  one/  or,  O,  joy,  some  'millionaire'  for  a  meal  or  lunch  and  a  movie 
ticket.  By  the  time  they  make  sixteen  they  are  known  as  'cruisers'  and  are 
soon  allied  to  some  'pimp'  or  'thieves'  gang,  Rapidly  they  drift  to  the  very 
worst.  Every  'outlaw  gang,'  every  murder  guild  in  Chicago  has  its  legion 
of  'women'  and  these  'women'  are  rounded  up  by  the  dozen  after  every 
startling  crime  but  are  quickly  turned  loose  again.  They  are  among  the 

8 


most  pathetic  cases  that  come  into  the  hands  of  the  police.  Most  of  this 
great  'camp  following'  of  the  Chicago  crime  army  are  very  young,  a  large 
per  cent  under  twenty-one  years.  They  may  be  well  dressed  or  not,  accord- 
ing to  the  success  of  their  'gang'  in  thievery,  hold-ups,  or  to  their  own 
success  in  general  harlotry,  and  in  court  they  are  the  'alibi-alices'  of  their 
men.  They  are  the  problem  of  the  police,  the  menace  of  society,  for  prac- 
tically all  of  them  are  diseased,  a  millstone  around  the  city's  neck,  and 
there  are  five  thousand  of  them  roaming  the  night  streets.  Say,  why  don't 
you  church  and  club  women  try  to  do  something?" 

My  heart  flashed  as  this  veteran  police  officer  talked  on  and  on  about 
the  girlhood  of  my  city.  "But,  officer,"  I  again  questioned,  "what  finally 
becomes  of  these  girls  ?  Where  do  they  drift  to,  tell  me." 

"O,  as  Chicago  grows  hotter  and  hotter  for  them,  they  go  to  other  places, 
to  the  border  cities  of  Texas  and  the  Pacific  Coast.  There  they  come  in 
direct  contact  with  the  'international'  dealers  in  women,  the  'slavers'  of  all 
the  world." 

Please  bear  in  mind  as  you  read  that  these  girls  are  still  very  young. 
The  great  majority  of  them  never  finished  the  grade  schools,  that  they  came 


Tiny  Somoliland   (Africa)   Girl.     For  nine  weeks  ward  of  Chicago  Woman's  Shelter 

into  the  world  ill-balanced  in  mind  and  body  with  the  failings  of  inheritable 
disease,  that,  through  no  fault  of  their  own,  they  are  impulsive,  weak  in 
judgment,  unstable,  yet  usually  likable  and  ambitious.  Many  of  them  are 
the  daughters  of  immigrants,  a  few  of  them  educated  or  have  friends", 
money.  Speaking  of  them  as  a  whole,  they  are  the  girls  who  never  had  a 
chance. 

Following  the  cue  of  thought  the  officer  had  given  me,  I  began  to 
look  the  field  over.  For  years  I  had  known  intimately  of  Chicago's  vast 
trade  in  crime  of  various  kinds  in  women — known  the  men  who  ruled  it — 
who  had  ruled  it  for  years,  known  the  McGoverns,  Colosimo,  and  his 
former  alleged  wife  "Madam"  Rocco,  Mike  Heitler,  "Mike  the  Greek,"  the 
Everleighs.  For  years  they  had  stood  in  the  forefront  of  Chicago's  sub- 
merged world,  where  most  of  them  stand  to-day  at  the  very  toeline. 
"And,"  continued  the  officer,  "in  the  western  coast  cities  these  girls  come 
in  direct  touch  with  the  vicious  demands  of  all  the  Oriental  world  and  are 
easily  induced  to  go  on  and  on  to  Siberia,  Japan,  China,  the  sea  islands 
of  all  the  south  countries — raging  death." 

9 


I  have  had  some  experience  with  the  "trade"  here  in  Chicago,  and  to  one 
who  has  lived  for  many  years  in  the  vast  festering  sinks  of  humanity  that 
lie  smelly  and  submerged  in  such  districts  as  those  found  in  the  West.  Side 
purlieus  of  Sangamon  Street,  Morgan  and  Monroe  Streets,  and  all  the 
sunken  lawless  neighborhoods  that  raise  their  toad-stool  heads  in  that  great 
underworld  territory  bounded  on  the  north  by  Chicago  Avenue  and  on  the 
south  by  Fortieth  Street  with  long  lines  of  side  streets  filled  with  the  filthy 
and  underbred  that  lay  splattered  out  from  the  river  on  the  east  to  the 
County  Hospital  on  the  west ;  to  one  who  has  walked  past  the  corner  of 
Halsted  and  Madison  Streets  at  a  late  hour  and  faced  the  army  of  men, 
seen  there  after  theater  hours,  men  living  by  hook  or  crook  off  of  women, 
men  who  slink  out  of  their  rooms  or  cellars,  or  from  the  back  end  of  some 


Japanese    Geisha 

sinister  slimy  saloon  and  join  themselves  together  as  the  night  grows  old,  to 
buy  and  sell  and  deal  in  human  blood ;  to  one  who  has  lived  among  these,  and 
kept  life  and  limb  intact,  the  traverse  of  the  far-stretching  plains  and  moun- 
tains, the  graves,  the  heathenism  of  the  interior  of  Asia  holds  little  to  make 
afraid.  'For  a  number  of  years  my  work  as  superintendent  .of  one  of  Chi- 
cago's large  institutions  for  the  protection  and  practical  aid  of  stranded 
women  and  girls  has  led  me  nightly  into  that  city's  most  sordid  quarters — 
not  always  quarters  of  poverty,  but  many  times  tinseled  and  glittering,  yet 
always  the  same  old  slimy  filth,  filled  with  a  million  germs  of  frightful 
disease  that  within  a  few  years  hands  out  its  notice  and  takes  its  toll  of 
death  from  those  who  dabble  in  it.  I  had  been  pondering  over  and  over 
in  my  mind  the  question,  "What  finally  becomes  of  the  'cruiser,'  the  street 
woman  just  starting  on  her  long  walk  of  death?  She  is  too  strong  to  die 

10 


— yet — where  does  she  go?  She  does  not  stay  here  long,  she  must  go  to 
New  York — to  the  North — the  South."  So  one  day  Christine  Kuppinger 
(my  partner  and  companion  in  travel  in  many  a  far-off  corner  of  the  world) 
and  I  took  a  train  to  New  York  to  see  if  we  could  find  her  there.  We  stayed 
for  days  and  weeks  at  an  old-time  hotel  near  the  great  street  walking 
grounds,  grounds  where  men  and  women  go  every  night  to  hunt  innocent, 
or  "near  innocent"  blood,  blood  of  girls  and  boys  to  stir  and  mix  it,  to 
alloy  it  with  frightful  disease,  and  turn  it  finally  into  gold,  gold  for  the  slave 
master,  gold  that  one  day  will  sink  as  completely  the  health  and  vitality  of 
this  nation  as  was  sunk  the  health  and  life  of  old  Rome.  We  went  around 
everywhere,  looked  over  the  pavement  crowd,  visited  the  night  court,  the 
woman's  municipal  lodging  house.  We  went  down  into  Chinatown  and 
through  all  its  great  surrounding  slums,  many  times  into  the  midnight 
mission  on  Doyer  Street,  into  all  the  homes  for  girls — spent  days  around 


A   Girls'   School  in   our   Samoan   Islands 

Ellis  Island,  walked  the  streets  until  our  feet  ached,  but  found  few  girls 
we  had  known  in  Chicago. 

"This  is  winter  and  they  go  South  in  winter,"  said  a  wise  one.  "All 
right,"  we  said,  "we'll  go  South  and  find  them."  So  South  we  went.  We 
stopped  a  week  in  Washington,  perhaps  some  of  these  girls  were  there. 
We  were  particularly  looking  for  some  of  the  six  or  eight  hundred  public 
slave  women  held  on  Armour  Avenue,  Dearborn  Street,  Dearborn  Alley, 
Twenty-second  Street,  etc.  (Chicago),  up  to  the  time  of  the  Wayman  raids. 
We  knew  very  many  of  these  women  well  enough  to  speak  to  them.  They 
were  the  women  held  in  such  slaughter  pens  as  those  operated  by  "Jim" 
Colosimo,  the  "Jew  Kid,"  Madam  Rocco,  "Mike  the  Greek,"  the  "Waup," 
"Black  Mag,"  "Mike"  Heitler,  "Monkey  Face  Genker,"  the  Friedmans,  and 
the  Blooms.  We  knew  the  "ring,"  the  "gang,"  the  gunmen — we  knew  Roy 
Jones  and  his  infamous  dive  of  murder,  "Duffy  the  Goat,"  and  decaying 
Moresco.  We  knew  them  all,  their  blood-red  hands,  their  evil,  bulging 
faces — and  we  knew  their  women.  We  were  determined  to  somehow  or 
other  find  out  what  becomes  of  these  women  who  have  once  been  bartered 
across  the  counter  of  Chicago's  public  slave  auction  block. 


11 


THE  SOUTH 

A  block  back  of  the  rear  of  the  Queen  and  Crescent  Railroad  passenger 
station  and  running  out  and  across  to  the  old  Saint  Louis  Number  two 
cemetery  in  one  direction  and  down  toward  the  old  Absinthe  house  near 
the  French  market  in  another  direction,  comprising  blocks  and  streets  of 
territory,  lies  New  Orleans'  vast  soul  market.  Two  or  three  blocks  away 
stood  the  wreckage  of  the  Hotel  Royal.  At  the  time  of  our  visit  there, 
several  years  ago,  this  ancient  relic  of  a  past  reign  of  "Far  South"  slavery 
still  held  its  head  above  the  street.  Shreds  of  wonderful  tapestry  and 
exquisite  carving  still  clung  to  its  skeleton  form.  Picking  our  way  across 
the  building  under  the  guidance  of  an  old  Negro  woman,  we  came  at 
last  to  the'  immense  ancient  rotunda  with  its  old  auction  block  at  the  far 
end  of  the  room.  It  was  dark  and  damp  in  there.  There  were  puddles 
of  slimy  water  on  the  dirty  floor.  I  saw  the  rafters  covered  with  slime.  I 


A   Marist   Sister  of  the   American   Samoans.      Eighteen   years   she  has  worked 
alone  in   these   islands. 

saw  spiders  on  the  wall — we  walked  over  to  the  "block."  Lizards  and 
crawling  things  slunk  away — it  was  the  South's  old  slave  auction.  I 
looked  again  at  the  block  chipped  and  broken  by  a  thousand  tourists.  My 
mind  and  vision  wandered  up  among  the  colonnades,  and  back  again  to  that 
block  of  black  slavery.  A  great  procession  of  sixty  years  ago  seemed  going 
by.  I  saw  a  black  baby  snatched  from  the  flabby  breast  of  a  whipped 
black  mother.  I  saw  a  girl  in  whose  veins  flowed  the  Aryan  blood  of  old 
Virginia  forced  out  on  the  block  under  the  knout  of  a  brutal  driver.  I  saw 
her  dress  torn  from  her  trembling  limbs,  I  heard  a  voice  that  seemed 
to  come  from  Hades  hiss  that  they  were  straight,  well  made — I  heard 
another  hiss  "and  she's  intact,  what  am  I  bid?"  I  saw  a  trembling  woman 
— a  mother  clutch — the  girl? — no,  the  air — I  staggered  over  to  the  window, 
I  looked  across  to  the  great  white  slave  market  of  the  beautiful  Southern 
city,  a  loved  city,  for  my  blood  is  Southern  blood,  the  heavens  seemed 
brass  over  it  all — I  looked  again,  something  seemed  to  glow,  to  hang 

12 


over  New  Orleans  in  hopeful  shade — yes,  it  was  a  shadow — the  shadow  of 
the  Cross — and  it  fell  again  over  a  white  market  in  my  Southland  and  with 
its  shadow  came  healing,  liberty — Salvation. 

Out  of  the  old  Royal  we  went,  glad  to  breathe  the  fresh  air  again. 
We  strolled  down  into  Liberty  Street,  Liberty  Street  with  its  hundreds 
of  peculiar  little  Southern  "cribs."  Whites,  blacks  and  breeds  all  mixed 
together,  reeked  and  smelled  along  the  side  streets  and  alleys.  A  girl  sat 
smoking  inside  a  doorway.  The  "men"  controlling  the  block  were  resting 
in  a  shady  corner  saloon.  "Let's  go  in,"  Mrs.  Kuppinger  said,  "I  believe 
I  know  her."  Sure  enough  we  did  know  her  and  she  knew  us.  "Where 
did  you  use  to  work?"  we  asked.  "Out  of  Madam  Leo's  in  Chicago," 
answered  the  girl.  "On  Armour?"  asked  Mrs.  Kuppinger.  "Sure,"  an- 
swered the  girl.  "I'm  so  glad  to  see  a  'North'  face  again.  I'm  lonesome 
down  here  among  all  these  niggers."  She  was  one  of  the  girls  so  uncere- 
moniously hustled  out  of  Chicago  when  the  city  partially  cleaned  up  its 
vast  segregated  red  light  district  a  few  years  ago  and  in  the  course  of  a 


Kamahamaha   Palace,   Honolulu,   Headquarters  Pacific   Division   Red   Cross,    1917-18 

ten  days'  stay  in  New  Orleans  we  found  and  learned  of  quite  a  number  of 
girls  forced  into  Southern  cities  by  the  great  wave  of  action  against  public 
vice  in  Illinois,  Iowa  and  other  Northern  States.  The  women  were  filthy, 
abject,  while  hundreds  of  greasy  men  lounged  through  the  district  drum- 
ming up  trade,  bartering,  guaranteeing  their  respective  "houses"  to  be  free 
from  disease  and  putting  out  all  the  allusions  and  inducements  usually 
offered  by  the  "cadet"  of  such  a  district.  Above  and  over  all  was  the 
master.  He  held  no  visible  whip  in  his  hand,  but  he  held  something  a 
hundred  times  more  dreadful,  for  he  held  drink  and  drugs,  absinthe, 
mental  terror,  and  he  held  them  in  a  hand  gloved  in  velvet.  A  whip  is  not 
always  necessary  though  it  is  many  times  used.  One  drug,  morphine, 
cocaine,  even  whisky — a  few  doses,  a  few  drinks,  a  habit,  the  victim  is 
helpless. 

Asked  the  girl  from  Madam  Leo's:  "Say,  do  you  know  if  it's  true^or 
not  that  'Big  Kate'  and  'Jew  Rosie'  went  to  China?"  "No,  I  don't  know," 
answered  Mrs.  Kuppinger,  "I  hadn't  heard  of  it;  did  you  girls  hear  they 
had  ?"  "Sure ;  you  know  Kate  used  to  be  in  that  house  that  was  filled  with 
white  girls  for  the  use  of  Chinese — you  know  that  house  on  Armour 

13 


Avenue  back  in  Chicago ;  well,  somehow  they  got  her  to  go  over  to 
Shanghai  and  she's  never  been  heard  of  since,  nor  has  Rosie,  and  Rosie's 
mother  a  widow,  too,  and  lives  in  Russia  somewhere,  and  Rosie  use  to 
send  home  money  to  the  old  lady  and  the  kids.  I  wonder  if  they  did  go?" 


THE  WEST 

"Hey  there,  you!  I  mean  you  two  women."  Christine  Kuppinger,  niy 
traveling  companion,  and  I  paused  a  moment  and  turned  around  to  see  where 
the  call  came  from.  As  we  stopped,  officer  789  of  the  San  Francisco 
(Cal.)  police  force  came  hurriedly  over  to  where  we  were  standing.  It 
seemed  we  were  on  either  "historic"  or  "forbidden"  ground.  Anyhow, 
we  were  at  the  corner  of  Commercial  Avenue  at  the  spot  where  Bartlett 
Avenue  debouches  into  it,  about  half  way  up  the  hill  from  old  Barbary 
Coast.  We  were  surrounded  on  every  side  by  hundreds,  even  thousands 
of  Orientals.  From  one  direction  came  the  shrill  call  of  a  street  "hawker," 
from  another  the  shriek  of  a  woman  in  distress,  from  all  sides  came  the 
smirk  of  strange  yellow  ^aces.  It  was  Saturday  night  in  the  Oriental 
prostitution  district  of  the  city.  "Did  you  mean  us?"  we  asked  as  789 
caught  up  with  us.  "Yes,"  answered  the  officer.  "I  was  afraid  you  ladies 
might  be  going  to  walk  through  Bartlett  Avenue  and  I  wanted  to  stop  you." 
"Why  did  you  want  to  stop  us?"  we  asked.  "O,  you  know  the  police  do 
not  allow  decent  women  to  walk  on  some  of  these  streets,  it's  dangerous, 
you  know,"  and  789  leaned  against  the  lamp  post  (everybody  walks  in  the 
middle  of  the  street  in  this  section  of  San  Francisco)  and  looked  as  official 
as  possible.  "But  we  want  to  know  why,  why  we  cannot  walk  on  Bartlett 
Avenue  or  any  other  street  in  San  Francisco,"  we  kept  asking. 

Officer  789  looked  puzzled,  and  officer  667  lounging  on  an  opposite 
corner,  seeing  the  conversation  unusually  prolonged,  came  over  to  see  what 
was  doing.  "O,  well,"  answered  789  finally,  "there's  a  lot  of  white  girls 
in  there  and  the  Orientals  and  others  interested  do  not  like  to  have  visitors, 
that  is,  women  visitors,  around  too  much."  Here  667  came  to  the  rescue 
of  his  brother  officer.  "I'll  tell  you  what  to  do,"  said  he,  "you  go  down  and 
see  the  police  commissioner  of  the  district  and  see  if  you  cannot  obtain  a 
permit.  If  he  says  it  is  all  right  to  walk  through,  why,  you  go  through. 
See?"  "All  right,"  we  answered,  "Only  we've  been  through  already." 
"O !"  and  officer  789  looked  still  more  disturbed.  We  asked  him  if  he  had 
ever  been  out  of  San  Francisco.  "Well,  no,"  he  answered,  halting,  "I  have 
always  lived  here."  "All  right,  we'll  see  you  again,"  we  answered,  and 
walked  on  down  Commercial  Avenue  toward  the  car  line  and  Barbary 
Coast. 

Away  to  the  right,  perhaps  half  a  mile,  Market  Street  was  ablaze  with 
beautiful  flowers  and  brightest  lights.  Women,  the  city's  fairest,  threw 
flowers  into  the  air  and  smiled  a  smile  of  welcome  to  the  crowded  street — 
the  stranger  within  the  gate — the  Golden  Gate.  Men  trailed  great  auto- 
mobiles up  and  down,  machines  that  were  loaded  with  a  wealth  of  bloom 
and  beauty — for  was  it  not  the  Portola  Festival — the  festival  of  the  Gate? 
But  no  sound  of  joy  or  music  floated  up  to  that  other  festival  on  the 

14 


reeking  hillside  that  night,  the  festival  of  men's  debauchery,  only  yellow 
smirks  as  gold  was  exchanged  for  white  flesh,  only  foreign  damning  oaths 
— women's  screams — it  was  the  Festival  of  Death. 


THE  ORIENT 

Japan  practically  controls  the  passenger  shipping  of  the  Pacific  Ocean 
and  certainly  she  controls  the  Asian  Pacific  Coast  line  from  Vladivostock 
to  Manila.  In  the  fifty  years  she  has  been  in  contact  with  the  Western 
world  she  has  planted  her  vast,  government-taxed,  government-upheld 
yoshiwaras  in  every  city  in  every  country  she  has  been  allowed  to  enter. 
Her  young  women,  leased  or  sold — by  the  seke  system,  are  to  be  found 
in  great  hordes  in  every  Oriental  city.  She  rules  the  commercialized 


Nectarine   No.   9,    Yokohama,   Japan 

prostitution  of  the  Western  oceans.  Even  in  Honolulu  and  Manila;  under 
the  very  shadow  of  the  Stars  and  Stripes,  she  has  established  great  dis- 
tricts and  filled  them  with  not  only  her  own  women,  but  with  the  women 
of  all  the  world.  Coast  line  Siberia  is  overwhelmed  with  her  geisha,  her 
harlots.  Every  Japanese  passenger  ship  leaving  our  American  coast  is 
supplied  with  her  publicity  propaganda,  her  advertisements  of  this  great 
"house"  and  that  great  yoshiwara.  She  is  known  the  Western  world  over  as 
"The  Island  of  Girls"  for  she  everywhere  from  the  "Picture  Bride"  of 
California,  west  to  "Nectarine  No.  9"  in  Yokohama,  from  North  Siberia 
south  to  55  Gardenia  Street,  Manila,  legalizes  and  deifies  the  prostitution 
of  her  own  and  other  women.  She  is  the  social  menace  of  the  Orient,  the 
world,  and  for  the  benefit  of  those  who  shall  read  this,  the  writer,  after 
numerous  journeys  through  Siberian  waters,  through  Japan,  China,  the 
Philippines,  Australia,  and  the  South  Seas,  gives  out  the  following  infor- 
mation, gathered  through  six  years  of  patient  investigation  as  a  warning 
of  existing  conditions  in  the  countries  that  wash  their  faces  in  the  lap  of 
the  Pacific  Ocean — America's  slowly  but  surely  back  door. 

15 


A  great  ocean-going  steamer  was  backing  away  from  her  slip  in  the 
wharves  of  San  Francisco.  Good-bys  had  been  said,  flowers,  masses  of 
gorgeous  bloom  had  been  thrown  on  board,  handkerchiefs  were  waving, 
a  mammoth  ship,  a  passenger  ship,  had  turned  her  nose  toward  Asia  and 
all  beyond.  On  board  of  her  were  a  little  party  of  missionaries  going  out 
to  work  in  the  "foreign  fields,"  going  out  ardent,  enthusiastic,  to  help 
raise  the  standard  of  the  Cross  against  Buddhism,  Shintoism,  against  Con- 
fucius and  his  world-old  doctrines. 

Among  this  party  was  a  very  fine  looking  young  woman.  Tall,  light, 
enthusiastic,  verdant  as  the  hills  of  her  own  central  Western  state,  she 
was  at  twenty-four  years  of  age  going  to  Asia  to  become  a  missionary. 

There  was  a  noticeable  passenger  on  board  the  steamer  as  she  slipped 
out  of  the  gate  and  into  the  sea.  He  was  a  kind  and  affable  man,  he  was  a 
physician,  Dr.  Sargent  of  Seattle.  Naturally  on  the  ocean  there  are  times 
when  medical  advice  is  much  sought  after  and  Dr.  Sargent  was  in  demand. 
As  the  days  went  by  Dr.  Sargent  began  to  be  seen  much  with  the  young 


Yoshiwara,   Yokohama,  Japan 
(Note  regulation  opaque  lights  that  round  the  world  advertise  Japanese  prostitution) 

missionary.  "Be  careful,  Miss  Blank,"  warned  an  older  woman  in  the 
partv,  "sea  acquaintances  and  friendships  sometimes  prove  burdens  on 
land?' 

The  time  passed  rapidly  and  as  the  ship  neared  the  Japanese  coast 
Dr.  Sargent  ardently  pressed  the  girl  to  go  on  down  to  Shanghai,  China, 
and  there  marry  him.  Waveringly  she  refused.  The  ship  touched  a 
Japanese  seaport,  the  girl's  destination. 

"I  will  return  and  visit  you,"  whispered  the  doctor  as  she  left  the  liner 
for  her  field  of  work.  This  girl's  older  friends  heaved  sighs  of  relief. 
"One  ship  flirtation  abruptly  ended,"  they  declared. 

Our  little  missionary  entered  the  great  compound  of  a  sister  faith  to 
await  her  transportation  to  a  language  school  near  by.  This  compound 
situated  within  a  rock-hewn  entrance  and  on  a  hill  overlooking  the  United 
States  consulate,  the  flag,  would  seem  to  any  ordinary  observer,  a  safe 
place  for  any  woman.  Its  corps  of  workers  could  not  be  surpassed — all 
was  well. 

Two  weeks  after  this  time  Dr.  Sargent  walked  deliberately  up  the  steps 
of  the  Mission  building,  rang  the  bell  and  asked  for  Miss  Blank.  She 

16 


came  downstairs  to  meet  him.  He  insisted  on  taking  a  little  walk.  She 
refused  unless  accompanied  by  a  chaperon.  Miss  Blank  called  a  friend 
of  the  writer's  to  go  with  them  on  the  proposed  walk.  Dr.  Sargent,  hear- 
ing the  conversation  between  Miss  Blank  and  the  resident  missionary, 
brought  such  pressure  to  bear  on  Miss  Blank  for  a  few  minutes'  private 
conversation  that  they  started  to  walk  slowly  to  the  entrance  of  the  Mission 
compound.  In  a  minute  almost  the  trap  was  sprung.  The  woman  mis- 
sionary in  the  compound  came  down  with  hat  and  gloves  ready  for  the 
walk.  She  missed  the  young  woman.  Immediately  a  search  was  started, 
but  Dr.  Sargent  had  turned  to  the  left  instead  of  the  right  on  leaving  the 
compound  and  instantly  he  and  Miss  Blank  were  swallowed  up  in  a 
crowded,  jamming  street.  Thoroughly  frightened  now  and  entirely  lost, 
Miss  Blank  demanded  that  the  doctor  take  her  back  to  the  Mission.  A 
ship  lay  at  anchor  in  the  bay,  a  ship  for  Shanghai,  China.  "Come  on," 
said  the  doctor,  "we  will  go  and  have  some  Japanese  lunch  and  then  be 
married  and  leave  this  country  this  afternoon." 

"I  cannot,  cannot,"  cried  Miss  Blank,  "I  still  owe -my  passage  money 
to  my  Board.  I  cannot  leave."  "Yes,  you  will  leave,"  said  Dr.  Sargent. 
They  had  wandered  on  and  on.  The  girl  in  one  way  was  helpless,  but 
physically  she  was  a  strong  woman,  a  college  girl.  Dr.  Sargent  seized  her 
as  they  came  into  a  secluded  part  of  the  street.  She  fought  him  \vjth  stout 
arms  and  a  now  thoroughly  aroused  stout  heart.  He  threw  a  silken  scarf 
about  her  neck  and  tried  to  choke  her.  She  snatched  it  away  and  throwing 
all  her  strength  into  one  mighty  effort  broke  loose  from  him  and  dashed 
away.  After-  an  exciting  run  she  escaped  him  and  in  the  course  of  an 
hour  or  so  was  able  to  find  her  way  back  to  the  Mission.  Dr.  Sargent 
went  down  to  Shanghai  and  afterward  was  cool  enough  to  write  to  Miss 
Blank,  still  asking  her  to  join  him  in  that  city. 

One  would  naturally  think  that  surrounded  by  every  protection  a  power- 
ful Church  could  give  and  remembering  the  fact  that  all  missionaries  go 
out  in  parties,  each  party  accompanied  by  someone  going  out  for  a  second 
term  of  service,  our  girls  going  to  Asia  would  be  safe  enough ;  but  when 
one  realizes  the  intricate  thorough  workings  of  the  organized  white  slavers 
of  the  Trans-Pacific  business  of  commercialized  dealings  in  our  women, 
one  can  only  wonder  and  fight  back  in  the  best  way  possible  and  trust  for 
laws  and  legislation  that  will  forever  put  a  stop  to  these  "sea  wolves"  and 
their  death  trade  of  the  Pacific. 

No  British  woman  is  allowed  to  prostitute  herself  in  any  British  colony 
where  flies  the  Union  Jack.  In  all  the  great  armies  of  white  slaves  in  the 
Orient,  the  American  girl  predominates.  She  is  closely  followed  by  the 
Jewish  and  the  French  girl.  Many  Russian  women,  too,  are  noted  in  these 
vast  districts,  for  women,  near  the  military  camps  in  such  cities  as  Peking, 
Shanghai  and  Hongkong — in  fact,  women  of  all  the  nations  are  con- 
gregated in  these  immense  flesh  markets,  American  leading  all  in  exports 
to  them.  We  fall  behind  in  many  ways  in  our  trade  with  the  Orient,  but 
in  the  shipment  of  our  young  American  girls  by  all  the  slimy  traders  in 
womanhood  from  all  the  world,  we  at  least  lead  the  way,  until  the  words 
"American  woman"  have  become  by-words  in  many  parts  of  Asia.  I  ask  the 
club-woman  and  the  Church-woman  of  the  United  States  to  take  this  matter 
up — to  take  it  before  their  congressmen,  and  ask  stricter  legislation  regard- 

17 


ing  the  leaving  an  American  port  for  Asia  by  the  woman  who  has  little 
proof  of  her  object  or  the  destination  of  her  journey.  A  great  commercial- 
ized vice  ring  reaches  around  the  world,  it  is  systematized,  its  organization 
is  strength  itself.  A  girl  is  missing  to-day  in  Chicago  or  New  York,  a 
month  later  she  is  found  in  some  remote  American  city  or  in  the  dives  of 
the  Orient,  or  worse  yet,  she  is  never  found  nor  heard  of  again.  We  drag 
our  rivers,  and  our  police  forces  are  kept  busy  trying  to  find  her  body,  while 
on  some  trans-Pacific  steamer,  thousands  of  miles  away,  some  swart,  shrewd 
man,  born  and  bred  leagues  from  our  shores,  treads  the  deck  and  congrat- 
ulates himself  that  in  the  cabins  are  a  few  American  girls  going  out  as 
actresses  (?)  or  governesses  (?)  or  companions  (?),  and  for  each  one  he 
lands  he  will  get  a  thousand  dollars  cash  and  all  expenses  paid.  One  of  our 


Christine  M.  Kuppinger  and  author  leaving  gate  of  old  Royal  Palace,  Seoul,  Korea 

American  girls  taken  to  China  is  first  placed  in  a  high  class  house  (see  cut 
of  Zaza  Van  Buren's  house  in  Shanghai,  the  House  of  the  Golden  Stair), 
and  is  kept  there  about  three  months,  that  is,  providing  business  is  good. 
If  it  is  not  good  and  girls  are  slow  coming  in,  she  may  be  kept  longer, 
but  if  things  go  right  and  trade  is  brisk,  she  will  likely  be  sent  to  a  lower 
class  house,  as  soon  as  it  is  known  she  is  diseased.  The  prevailing  venereal 
disease  of  all  the  Orient,  the  Philippines  and  the  South  Seas  is  "yaws."  It 
is  highly  contagious  and  is  greatly  feared  throughout  Asia.  It  is,  correctly 
speaking,  a  species  of  syphilis,  many  times  called  Oriental  syphilis.  No 
girl  escapes  it  and  beset  as  she  is  by  other  diseases  usually  is  compelled  to 
leave  a  first-class  "house"  within  a  short  time  after  entering.  A  girl  enter- 
ing China  without  a  full  knowledge  of  where  she  is  going  and  with  strong 
earnest  friends  to  meet  and  care  for  her,  can  be  lost  forever  in  one  minute. 
I  remember  well  the  afternoon  Mrs.  Kuppinger  and  I  for  the  first  time 
entered  from  the  cars  the  railway  station  at  Peking.  A  thousand  coolies 
pressed  us  to  the  wall,  dirty,  filthy  hands  snatched  at  our  luggage,  half- 
blinded  eyes  leered  at  us,  close,  a  thousand  struggling,  fighting,  coughing 
men  were  screaming  at  the  top  of  their  voices.  They  could,  as  we  found 
out  afterward,  be  heard  two  miles  away  from  the  station.  Not  a  white  face 
was  in  sight.  We  knew  not  which  way  to  turn — we  could  speak  no  word 
of  their  language  and  there  remained  but  one  thing  to  do,  simply  beat  off 
the  crowd  with  our  walking  sticks  and  defend  as  best  we  could  our  valuable 

18 


cases.  They  were  determined  to  carry  them  away  to  our  hotel.  They  were 
reckless,  starving,  any  one  of  them  would  have  risked  a  perfect  rain  of 
blows  in  the  face  to  have  gained  one  cent  for  the  little  job  of  work.  We 
stood  our  ground  and  slashed  right  and  left.  A  moment  more  and  Miss 
Fearon  of  the  American  Methodist  Mission  had  us  by  the  arms.  I  touched 
with  my  walking  stick  two  men  to  carry  our  luggage,  another  minute  we 
were  in  rickshaws,  out  of  the  crowd  and  at  our  hotel. 

A  girl  who  once  loses  sight  of  a  white  face  in  the  Orient,  of  a  friendly, 
strong  hand,  who  for  one  single  minute  gets  into  the  power  of  her  destroyers, 
is  lost  forever.  She  might  stand  in  the  middle  of  the  station  at  Peking  in  a 
crowd  of  a  thousand  and  scream  her  head  loose  and  not  one  soul  would  so 
much  as  look  around  to  see  what  the  matter  was,  unless  it  chanced  a  white 
man  stood  by.  Interference  in  affairs  between  whites  and  yellows  in  Asia 
is  not  common  unless  the  case  is  very  pronounced.  The  girl  once  off  the 
ship  or,  for  the  matter,  even  on  it,  is  absolutely  under  the  control  of  those 
who  have  her  in  charge. 

I  was  scarcely  prepared  for  the  sights  I  met  at  Tientsin,  China.  To  the 
woman  sold  into  a  life  of  shame  in  the  seaports  of  the  Orient  only  one  fate 
can  come.  A  year  or  two  in  some  dark  hole,  nothing  to  eat,  vile,  filthy  sur- 
roundings, vermin  of  every  kind,  opium,  frightful  disease,  "yaws,"  (Oriental 
syphilis),  torturing,  tearing  into  the  vitals  of  life,  gray  dead  leprosy,  in- 
sanity, the  general  (insane)  hospital — death. 

For  every  girl  who  reads  this,  I  want  to  paint  a  real  life  picture  of  gir! 
slavery  in  the  Orient.  I  want  to  tell  you  of  one  sick,  starving  girl  in  Tien- 
tsin, chained  all  day  in  the  cellar  of  an  Oriental  dive,  forced  to  the  door  of 
the  hut  above  as  the  evening  shadows  fell,  to  stand  stripped  to  the  waist 
and  beg  the  white,  black  and  yellow  faces  of  the  world  to  come  in.  One 
came  at  last.  She  shuddered,  every  nerve  in  her  grew  tense  as  hardened 
steel.  The  one  who  came  cared  not  that  her  eyes  were  half-blinded,  that 
her  limbs  bent  this  way  and  that.  He  was  one  of  her  kind.  He  was  a  leper 
"Unclean,"  she  shrieked,  and  tried  to  flee  the  foul  embrace,  only  to  be 
forced  forward  by  a  dozen  blood-yellow  hands  armed  with  hot  metal  chop- 
sticks. Into  all  the  torment  behind  her,  the  torment  she  knew  so  well,  she 
still  shrank  back,  back  from  the  gray  lumpy  leper — her  hand  flashed  to  her 
bosom — a  hidden  knife — it  reached  her  side — it  entered  it,  and  down  against 
the  bamboo  bars  of  that  reeking  Asiatic  cellar,  down  at  the  feet  of  the 
rotting  leper  fell  a  scarred,  huddled  white  American  body,  and  a  tortured, 
twisted  soul — a  soul  of  tears  and  blood — fluttered  out  past  the  Stars  and 
Stripes  flying  less  than  half  a  mile  away,  and  with  shrieks  against  its  burn- 
ing stain  and  wrong,  went  back  to  the  God  who  gave  it. 

For  real  information  regarding  social  conditions  in  Peking,  China,  we 
were  deeply  indebted  to  Mrs.  Dr.  Chauncy  B.  Goodrich,  National  President 
of  the  Woman's  Christian  Temperance  Union  of  China.  It  was  through 
Mrs.  Goodrich  that  we  were  admitted  to  the  Peking  Rescue  Home  for 
Chinese  prostitutes,  and  it  was  surely  a  wonderful  place.  Now,  the  China- 
man is  nothing  if  not  philanthropic.  He  gives  to  charity  and  believes  in 
his  giving.  So  Peking  has  a  real  rescue  home  for  fallen  women  or  rather 
slave  prostitutes.  When  in  or  near  foreign  concessions,  a  Chinese  slave 
prostitute  is  so  beaten  or  tortured  that  her  screams  become  an  annoyance  to 
the  people  living  near,  and  people  live  very  near  each  other  in  China,  or, 

19 


when  in  these  tortures  a  leg  or  arm  may  be  broken  or  an  eye  destroyed  and 
these  things  become  known,  this  girl  may  be  taken  (in  Peking  and  Shang- 
hai) before  what  is  known  as  a  "mixed"  court,  that  is,  a  court  where  one 
magistrate  is  an  American  or  European  and  one  a  Chinese,  and  if  this  court 
deems  her  as  having  been  cruelly  treated  she  may  be  taken  legally  from  the 
owner  and  placed  in  a  rescue  home.  So,  in  company  with  Mrs.  Goodrich  we 
"rickshawed"  out  to  the  Peking  home.  Visitors  are  not  usually  admitted  to 
this  institution,  but  our  friend's  social  standing,  her  elegant  Chinese  speech 
and  etiquette  opened  the  barred  door  in  the  heavy  wall  and  we  were  ad- 
mitted. In  the  military  guardhouse  at  the  gate  we  must  have  tea  and 
cake,  as  is  the  inevitable  (and  I  think  it  is  a  beautiful  one)  custom  in  both 
Japan  and  China.  We  were  ushered  through  two  more  gates  and  walls 
and  finally  came  to  the  matron's  office  and  on  beyond  to  the  huts  of  the 
girls  themselves.  On  the  morning  we  were  there,  there  were  about  eighty 
or  ninety  scarred,  half-blinded,  sick  girls  confined  in  the  place.  A  few  were 
beautiful — a  few  well.  They  scattered  like  sheep  as  we  entered  the  place, 
most  of  them  to  their  wretched  cells.  Many,  many  of  these  girls  were  half- 
demented,  many  stunted.  More  were  repulsive  with  venereal  disease.  All 
were  cold,  wretched,  for  it  was  a  zero  day  and  the  poor  of  Peking  have  no 
fire.  Very  few  Pekinese,  even  among  the  wealthier  class,  have  any  fire  in 
winter  excepting  a  brazier  of  burning  charcoal. 

Well,  on  this  morning  in  question  we  met  and  smiled  at  many  of  the 
cold  little  prisoners  of  the  rescue  home.  Their  ages  ranged  from  four 
years  up.  Little,  torn,  hungry  slaves — I  might  write  the  words  "little  dogs" 
of  humanity — scarred,  lost,  some  of  them,  though  sweet  and  lovable,  some 
like  animals  ruled  by  a  slaver's  knout.  As  we  entered  the  walls  of  the 
compound  we  noticed  posted  all  over  the  stones  and  on  sort  of  billboards 
dozens  of  pictures  resembling  our  old-fashioned  wood  cuts.  Around  these 
pictures  were  hundreds  of  struggling,  swearing,  filthy  coolies.  We  asked  the 
matron  what  these  men  were  doing  and  what  the  pictures  represented. 
"Why,"  she  answered,  "those  men  are  there  to  pick  out  concubines."  Each 
girl  as  she  comes  in  here  is  photographed  and  numbered  and  the  picture 
and  number  posted  on  the  wall,  the  men  come  and  look  the  pictures  over 
until  they  find  a  girl  they  think  they  would  like.  For  a  small  fee  the  girl 
may  be  given  over  to  this  man  as  a  wife,  concubine  or  slave.  He  takes  her 
to  his  home,  keeps  her  awhile.  If  he  is  satisfied  with  her,  if  she  works  well, 
he  keeps  her,  but  if  he  does  not  happen  to  like  her,  he  brings  her  back  any 
time  within  three  months,  bruised  and  bleeding  and  exchanges  her  for 
another  girl.  Good-by,  rescue  home ;  good-by,  little  bruised,  scarred  hope- 
less girls.  May  the  efforts  of  the  Church  of  Jesus  Christ  in  China  be  held 
up  on  mighty  wings  of  love  and  prayer  and  gold,  as  it  stands  in  that  vast 
Oriental  country  and  speed  its  arrows  of  a  human-divine  salvation  into  the 
darkened  lives  and  broken,  cursed,  tortured  bodies  of  Chinese  girlhood ! 

I  do  not  want  to  particularize  at  all  on  China  or  Chinese  customs  in 
this  little  volume,  but  I  want  to  make  understood  the  clear  fact  of  woman's 
position  in  China.  The  position  of  a  woman  in  China  is  exactly  that  of  a 
chattel,  a  slave.  I  realize  the  fact,  too,  that  through  the  wonderfully  suc- 
cessful efforts  of  the  missionaries  many,  many  women  and  girls  are  being 
broadly  educated,  but  these  students  and  emancipated  women  number  at  a 
maximum  estimate  one  hundred  thousand  while  China  has  one  hundred  and 

20 


fifty  millions  of  women  within  her  borders.  All  praise,  all  honor  to  the 
step  forward  the  girls  of  the  newest  Republic  are  making,  the  girls  on  the 
shore-line  of  that  great  nation,  yet  the  fact  remains  to  the  careful  traveler 
in  the  interior  and  to  one  who  goes  away  from  the  European  influences  of 
the  large  coast  cities,  that  the  women  of  China  are  slaves  pure  and  simple. 
Now  to  get  at  the  question  of  the  status  of  the  white  woman  in  China.  The 
white  woman  who  marries  a  Chinese  and  goes  back  to  China  to  live  with  her 
husband  utterly  and  forever  loses  her  standing  and  caste  both  among  whites 
and  Chinese.  The  Chinese  will  only  receive  and  treat  her  as  a  Chinese 
woman.  If  she  rebels  and  her  husband  chooses  to  uphold  her,  he  is  at 


In   spite   of   Kipling,    East   and   West   meet   in   friendly   fellowship 

once  boycotted,  first  by  his  family,  who  really  in  the  eyes  of  the  law  own 
her  body  and  soul,  then  by  the  entire  Chinese  city  or  community  in  which 
they  live.  They  are  cast  absolutely  adrift.  As  to  the  white  element  receiv- 
ing the  husband  and  wife  of  a  "mixed  marriage,"  this  is  as  seldom  done 
as  is  the  reception  into  our  own  white  society  of  a  mixed  marriage  couple  of 
black  and  white.  The  thing  is  utterly  repellent,  repulsive  and  impossible. 
Now  I  get  back  to  my  subject — our  white  women  in  the  Orient  who  have 
been  lured  there  through  various  promises  and  sold  into  a  life  of  public 
prostitution. 

The  white  prostitute  in  China,  aside  from  her  money-making  value,  is 
less  thought  of  by  the  Chinese  themselves  than  the  dog  that  haunts  the  out- 
lying graveyards  of  the  country  and  lives  by  gnawing  the  body  and  bones 
of  the  murdered  baby  left  there  for  him.  She  is  neither  thought  of  nor  is 
she  considered  as  a  human  being.  In  fact,  for  years  China  treated  all  Amer- 
ican women  coming  into  the  empire  with  as  much  contempt  as  she  dared, 
because  she  judged  all  American  women  by  the  great  hordes  of  American 

21 


prostitutes  plying  their  trade  along  the  coast  of  Asia  and  in  the  islands  of 
the  seas.  As  we  study  this  question,  keep  in  mind  one  great  fact:  "No 
British  woman  is  allowed  to  ply  the  trade  of  prostitution  in  any  of  England's 
colonial  possessions  or  treaty  ports  over  which  fly  the  Union  Jack."  Why 
not  be  able  to  say  the  same  of  the  United  States  and  the  Stars  and  Stripes? 
We  left  the  rescue  home  that  cold  morning  and  drove  away  to  the  little 
English  Church  in  the  British  legation  compound  of  Peking.  There  stood 
the  heavy  walls  protecting  the  half  mile  square  of  ground,  backed  by  the 
United  States  legation  grounds,  which  include  a  part  of  the  great  wall  of 
Peking,  forty  feet  broad  on  the  top,  sixty  feet  broad  at  the  base  and  forming 
the  back  wall  of  the  American  compound.  The  wall  of  Peking,  which  at 
this  point  is  near  the  water  gate  of  the  city,  is  considered  a  strategic  portion 
in  case  of  trouble  for  the  legations.  A  year's  rations  of  food  are  stored  in 
bullet-proof  structures  on  its  summit,  and  it  is  constantly  patrolled  by  the 
United  States  and  other  troops  at  this  place.  Since  the  Boxer  rebellion  of 


Chinese    House    of   Prostitution,    Hongkong 

1900  the  foreign  legation  grounds  of  the  city  of  Peking  have  never  been 
out  from  under  the  eyes  of  the  allied  troops  of  all  the  nations.  All  buildings 
within  half  a  mile  of  the  legations  were  burned  away  at  the  time  of  the 
rebellion  and  this  space  is  constantly  covered  with  cannon,  which  also  com- 
mand the  sites  of  the  Hotel  Peking,  Hotel  Wagon  Lits,  the  Methodist  mis- 
sionary compound  and  the  foreign  business  district.  We  climbed  up  on  the 
wall  of  Peking,  looked  across  the  United  States  compound,  and  beyond. 
Yes,  there  it  was,  the  British  compound  with  its  little  Church  inside.  It 
was  the  compound  where,  (when  the  mad,  frothing  Boxers  in  June,  1900, 
took  Peking)  were  gathered  together  for  months  all  the  ambassadors,  lega- 
tion employees,  army  guards  and  missionaries  of  practically  all  the  countries 
of  the  world,  to  withstand,  as  God  should  help  them,  fifty  thousand  raging 
Chinese.  It  was  here  in  this  compound  that  men  of  every  country  on  earth 
fought  and  dug  and  bled  and  died  to  save  white  women  and  children — it 
was  here  that  women  sobbed  and  prayed  and  raved  with  thirst  and  hunger 
until  death  was  a  prize,  a  Godsend,  an  answer  to  prayer.  It  was  here  that 
Frank  Gamewell,  a  missionary  who  had  been  a  civil  engineer  before  he  took 
Church  orders,  demonstrated  that  a  preacher  in  a  pinch  could  do  more  than 
preach,  and  scientifically  fortified  the  strategic  points  of  the  compound  walls 

22 


until  five  hundred  men  armed  with  modern  guns  held  them  against  fifty 
thousand  cowards  who  clamored  for  their  blood  and  wives  and  children. 
It  was  here  too,  that  when  the  rescue  came,  women  with  the  best  blood  of 
our  nation  in  their  veins,  consecrated  women  of  the  Churches,  women  of 
Britain,  France,  Germany,  Chinese  women,  all  women  of  all  nations,  after 
they  had  kissed  little  babies'  graves  and  washed  the  wounds  of  loved  ones 
with  their  tears,  climbed  up  on  the  wall,  and  cried  and  sang  together  as 
women  sometimes  can,  "O !  come,  let  us  sing  unto  the  Lord,  let  us  heartily 
rejoice  in  the  strength  of  our  salvation."  Sang  as  only  women  can  sing 
who  have  escaped  the  Great  Curse,  sang  it  up  past  Confucius,  up  past 


Shelter  Ward  who  now  has  the  advantage  of  school,   music  and  a  beautiful  home 

Buddha,  on  up  past  the  Cross,  the  clouds,  until  the  music  beat  white  against 
the  very  throne  of  God  and  was  caught  up  by  angel  voices  and  wafted 
back  again  to  earth  to  cap  the  great  already  laid  foundations  for  the  salva- 
tion of  China,  and  Chinese  women  for  the  Kingdom  of  Right. 

We  quietly  and  with  thoughts  and  hearts  melting  with  the  Great  Deliver- 
ance of  the  women  of  the  world  from  the  hands  of  the  Boxers  of  Peking, 
turned  and  walked  down  toward  the  north  end  of  the  legation  grounds.  We 
came  to  a  heavy  jutting  corner  of  the  wall.  It  was  here  that  the  troops  were 
massed,  who  night  and  day  defended  the  weaker  portions  of  the  wall. 
Away  up  high  at  the  corner  of  the  wall  was  the  smooth  surface  of  a  rock. 
Some  soldier  boy,  perhaps  he  was  a  "Tommy  Atkins,"  had  climbed  one  day 
high  above  all  the  others  and  with  a  paint  brush  scratched  Kipling's  words 
"lest  we  forget"  that  all  who  walked  might  read.  "Lest  we  forget."  Forget 
what?  Why  wives,  children,  woman's  honor — forget  to  shoot — forget  to 
pray! 

23 


We  walked  slowly  along,  it  was  a  glorious  winter's  day — we  looked  down 
'Telegraph  lane — the  flags  dimmed  away  into  the  backgrounds,  the  music  of 
parade  grounds  scarcely  reached  us — the  psalm  with  its  glory  sounded 
fainter — we  looked  again — yes,  there  they  were,  our  own  American  girls — 
dragging,  diseased,  prostituting  among  all  the  troops  and  gamblers  and 
hangers-on  of  all  the  nations  of  the  earth  to  be  found  in  this  great  Asiatic 
center.  They  led — and  after  them  came  another  vast  death  army  of  girls, 
Jewish,  French,  Russian,  Japanese,  until  in  that  army  almost  every  flag  on 
earth  was  represented.  We  have  to  leave  you  there,  girls,  until  we  can  go 
home  and  do  our  share  toward  arousing  the  club  women  and  Church 
women  of  at  least  one  of  God's  nations  to  help  you.  Leave  you  there  on  a 
shoreless  sea  whose  wreckage  bumping  into  you  is  the  awful  beast-man  of 
the  world,  the  eyeless  leper,  the  blinded  beggar,  the  hatchet-faced  coolie, 
the  bloated,  bulging,  festering  body  of  your  owner — but  we  have  read  the 


Little^  Christian  Korean  Girl  on  her  way  to   Sunday  School. 
Hymn   Books.      (Methodist   Mission,   Girls'    School,    Seoul.) 


Note  Bible  and 


letter  thirty-three  of  you  wrote  and  sent  to  Mrs.  Goodrich.  "We  are  awash 
on  a  sea  without  a  shore,  you  can  do  nothing  for  us,  we  are  lost — dead,  but 
won't  you  try  to  save  our  younger  sisters?"  Yes,  we  will  try  to  save  them, 
try  to  save  you.  We  will  do  all  we  can,  God  helping  us  to  tell  your  story 
and  have  at  least  a  little  part  in  bringing  about  your  final  rescue  and  salva- 
tion. 

It  is  in  the  city  of  Shanghai  that  we  find  the  white  slaver  really  in  the 
open,  unalloyed  trade  in  American  girls.  Great  houses  operating  by  the 
dozens,  little  houses,  dives  and  cellars — everyone  not  only  a  foul-smelling 
market  within  itself,  but  an  underground  shipping  point  to  all  the  interior 
cities  of  Asia.  The  entire  traffic  in  white  girls  as  I  have  found  it  throughout 
Asia  is  one  of  the  most  appalling  things  in  the  world.  Certainly  the  girl 
who  sails  away  to  a  foreign  country  of  any  kind,  anywhere,  without  fully 
recording  herself  with  her  own  government  is  a  simpleton,  and  deserves 
punishment,  but  not  the  kind  she  receives  in  Asia.  Moving  pictures  are 
beginning  operation  in  Japan,  China,  the  Philippines  and  for  these  hundreds 
of  girls  will  be  sent  out  by  men  who  "understand  how  to  get  them  through" 
and  will  be  lost  forever.  I  see  a  girl  here  to-day,  to-morrow — next  year  I 
look  across  into  Asia — I  see  a  little  show  window  there,  a  parched  face,  a 

24 


bruised,  scarred  back,  a  lost  body.  I  ask,  "Where  did  she  come  from  ?  Why, 
she's  white."  The  answer  comes  from  the  nurse  in  the  General  (insane) 
hospital,  "O,  she  came  from  America  last  year."  "Diseased?"  we  asked. 
"Yes,  it  settled  in  her  brain." 

*  I  have  the  highest  regard  and  love  for  the  Chinese.  I  believe  China  to 
be  the  coming  nation  of  the  Orient.  China  had  opium  thrust  upon  her, 
consequently  she  smokes  opium.  China  has  public  prostitution — commer- 
cialized— thrust  upon  her,  literally  jammed  down  her  national  throat.  Hence, 
she  has  prostitution,  opium  smoking  and  of  later  years,  tobacco  and  whisky, 
until  now  a  great  coolie  class,  a  class  that  never  knew  what  a  square  meal 
was,  can  be  employed  by  the  adventurers  of  Asia's  shores — the  "beach 
combers" — to  do  anything  on  earth  for  a  quarter. 

The  people  of  China  do  not  want  opium,  do  not  want  prostitution,  but 


Zaza  Van   Buren's   great    "house,"    16    Soo-Chow    Road,    Shanghai 

these  things  are  utterly  forced  upon  them.  In  their  hearts  they  prefer 
early  marriage,  a  concubine  added  now  and  then,  or  a  slave  girl.  The  real 
Chinese  likes  to  go  to  bed  at  dark  and  get  up  at  daybreak.  But  the  great 
white  slave  syndicate  of  Asia  and  deafers  all  over  Europe  and  America  are 
forcing  rapidly  the  open  house  of  prostitution  into  China.  She  is  helpless 
and  must  swallow  the  whole  thing  bait  and  hook.  Poverty  is  everywhere, 
and  then  the  Chinese  themselves  are  overridden  in  every  coast  city  and  in 
many  of  the  cities  of  the  interior  by  thousands  of  the  vilest,  bloated  creatures 
of  all  the  nations  of  the  world  gathered  to  lie  and  steal  and  cheat  and  rape 
until  the  Chinese  underworld,  the  world  around,  falls  in  with  these  and  the 
harvest  of  cruelty  and  blood  goes  on  and  on  always.  I  am  writing  from  a 
long  experience  in  the  Orient  and  after  investigations  that  covered  coast 
cities  of  Japan,  China,  and  the  Ph'ilippines  and  that  reached  away  into  the 
interior  of  all  these  countries. 

In  Yalu  Road,  Shanghai,  we  made  very  thorough  investigations.  This 
old  road  was  once  known  as  Scott's  Road,  but  it  became  so  murderously 
notorious  that  even  in  Shanghai  it  was  deemed  necessary  to  change  the  name 
of  the  lane  to  Yalu  Road.  At  the  end  of  the  Yalu  Road  on  the  east  is  a 
bridge.  I  do  not  know  the  name  of  the  bridge,  but  it  is  known  to  everyone 
as  suicide  bridge.  At  high  tide,  say  midnight,  the  water  from  the  sea 

25 


reaches  almost  to  the  floor  of  the  bridge.  Alone  and  disguised  at  the  middle 
hour  of  the  night,  many  and  many  a  white  girl  has  crept  out  of  some  Chinese 
den,  drunken  with  opium,  rotting  with  filthy,  incurable  disease,  insane, 
though  with  thought  enough  yet  left  to  want  to  die  and  slipped  noiselessly 
into  the  yellow,  muddy  water  and — Eternity.  Maybe  she  floated  out  to  sea 
with  the  tide,  more  likely  she  sank  forever  into  the  bottomless  ooze  of  mud 
to  decay  in  the  old  canal. 

God  only  knows  how  many  white  girls  have  been  deceived  and  smuggled 
into  China.  I  don't  know  how  many  are  there  by  actual  count,  but  I  do 
know  that  there  are  hundreds  and  thousands  of  them — and  I  know  by  all 
obtainable  facts  that  the  American  girl  leads  in  numbers  those  of  any  other 


Yalu   Road,   Shanghai 

race,  barring  always  the  Japanese,  and  I  do  also  know  that  the  great 
majority  of  white  girls  who  are  sent  to  Asia  for  purposes  of  commercialized 
vice  never  return  to  home  or  friends  and  that  they  are  lost  forever. 

It  is  almost  an  endless  task  to  write  of  Yalu  Road,  Shanghai.  Each 
"house,"  which  is  nothing  really  but  a  wretched  hut  and  cellar,  has  its  door 
barred  with  heavy  bamboo  poles,  while  at  the  side  of  the  door  is  a  little 
window  about  eight  by  ten  inches  in  size."  This  window  contains  no  glass, 
no  protection,  and,  chained  to  these  windows,  her  face  the  drawing  adver- 
tisement and  attraction  of  the  "house,"  stands  a  white  girl.  Hundreds  of 
these  girls  are  used  for  the  purpose  of  securing  patronage  for  the  house. 
Some  of  these  girls  standing  at  the  windows  are  insane,  some  die  there, 
standing ;  a  few  maniacal  girls,  a  very  few,  escape.  These  girls  standing  in 
the  windows  are  known  as  "show  women"  or  "actresses"  and  woe  to  the  girl 
in  America  who  is  ever  led  into  the  Orient  for  theatrical  or  show  purposes. 

26 


It  is  the  Yalu  Road  proposition  which  confronts  her  when  she  gets  into 
China,  and  from  the  Yalu  Road  there  is  no  escape. 

No  British  woman  can  prostitute  in  any  English  colonial  or  legation  ter- 
ritory over  which  floats  the  Union  Jack ! 

You  and  I  live  beneath  the  only  flag  in  all  the  world  that  has  never 
known  defeat,  and  the  very  basic  principle  upon  which  that  flag  is  builded  is 
human  liberty  and  human  protection,  and  so  by  personal  work  and  co- 
operation with  every  other  reform  and  labor  organization  for  the  uplifting 
of  womanhood  by  work  everywhere,  by  prayer  and  by  the  Power  of  the 
Cross,  let  us  set  ourselves  to  help  those  helpless  ones  of  ours  until  the  angels 
shall  take  up  the  story  of  shame  and  bitterness  and  wrong  and  bear  to  all 
the  world  and  to  Heaven  itself  the  swift  acknowledgment  that  we  are  our 
brother's  keeper. 


A   Sister  to   Chinese   Women   and   Girls.      (American    Church   Mission) 


27 


Give  Chicago's  Helpless  Woman  and 
Child  a  Chance 


Cfjtcago  Roman's  Belter 

It  cares  for  Emergency  cases  brought  in  at  any  hour  Day  or  Night 
1356  W.  Monroe  Street 


Open  Day  and  Night 

The  Shelter  is  one  of  the  City's  greatest  Practical  Char- 
ities. It  gives  instant  Aid,  Food,  Lodging,  Clothing  to  the 
Widowed,  Sick  or  Unfortunate  Woman,  to  the  Helpless 
Baby  and  the  Hungry,  Half-frozen  Public  School  Child. 

The  Shelter  is  in  the  center  of  Chicago's  mighty  surging 
downtown  district.  It  is  within  twenty  minutes  of  all  the 
large  railroad  passenger  stations,  courts,  police  stations,  and 
is  within  six  minutes  of  Cook  County  Hospital  and  the  West 
Side  Medical  Center. 


What  the  Press  and  Public  Say  of  the  Shelter 

W.  B.  Millard,  Executive  Secretary  of  the  Church  Federa- 
tion Council  of  Chicago  in  a  letter  Feb.  4,  1919,  to  Dr.  Jean 
T.  Zimmermann  says: 

"The  directors  in  session  peb.  4  desire  me  to  express  to 
you  the  appreciation  of  the  Church  Federation  and  Night 
Church  for  the  many  years  of  consecrated  and  effective  serv- 
ice you  have  rendered  by  which  tens  of  thousands  of  people 
have  been  reached  and  benefited. 

"We  feel  that  you  deserve  well  of  the  Churches  of  Chicago 
and  wish  you  the  utmost  blessings  of  God  as  you  continue  to 
serve  Christ  and  the  Nations  here  or  wherever  you  may  go." 

The  Tribune,  December,  1919,  says : 

"One  week's  help  at  the  right  moment  may  save  a  woman  or  child 
from  eternal  failure  and  despair. 

"The  Chicago  Woman's  Shelter,  a  temporary  home  for  stranded  out- 
of-work  girls  and  women,  is  located  at  1356  W.  Monroe  Street.  The 
shelter,  which  is  open  day  and  night,  has  for  the  president  of  its  execu- 
tive board  Mrs.  Inez  Rogers  Deach,  a  well-known  club  and  church 
woman.  It  is  said  to  be  the  only  institution  of  its  kind  in  Chicago  and  it 
cooperates  with  existing  charities.  It  is  also  affiliated  with  the  League 
of  Cook  County  Clubs." 


Dr.  Jean  Turner  Zimmecmann,  Founder  and  General  Super- 
intendent Chicago  Woman's  Shelter,  is  the  daughter  of  the 
late  Wm.  H.  Turner,  Surgeon  of  the  old  Second  Iowa  Infantry 
Regiment  of  Civil  War  fame  and  a  niece  of  Annie  Witten- 
myer,  former  National  President  of  Woman's  Relief  Corps 
of  the  G.  A.  R.  and  Regent  of  Pennsylvania  for  Daughters  of 
the  American  Revolution.  She  is  a  member  of  the  governing 
board  of  the  American  Asiatic  Association,  the  Chicago  Art 
Institute,  the  Woman's  City  Club,  and  for  two  years  was  a 
member  of  the  Speaker's  Committee  Illinois  Division  Council 
of  National  Defense. 


No  Woman  or  Child  Is  Ever  Turned  from  the  Shelter 
Unheard  or  Unaided. 

ONE  WEEK'S  HELP  AT  THE  RIGHT  MOMENT 
MAY  SAVE  A  WOMAN  OR  CHILD  FROM  ETERNAL 
FAILURE  AND  DESPAIR. 

Average  Yearly  Work  of  the  Shelter  during  past  Eight 
Years  has  been : 

No.  Nights  Lodging,  Yearly  Average 10,800 

No.  of  Warm  Meals,  Yearly  Average 35,850 

No.  of  Pieces  of  Clean,  Warm  Clothing  Distrib- 
uted (Nothing  Sold)  6,350 

Cases  Sent  to  State  and  City  Institutions 96 

Emergency,  Charity,  Carfare  and  Special  Meals. .      158 
No.  of  Calls  (Court,  Police  Stations,  and  Various 

Institutions)    , 2,028 

"Inasmuch  as  ye  have  done  it  unto  the  least  of  one  of  these, 
ye  have  done  it  unto  Me." 


Christine  M.  Kuppinger  is  Assistant  Superintendent  of 

the  Shelter  and  in  charge  of  its  Social  Work.     Mrs. 

Kuppinger  is  of  Danish  parentage  and  a  member 

of  the  Chicago  Methodist  Deaconess  Home 


WHY  NOT  GIVE  CHI- 
CAGO'S   CHILDREN 
A  CHANCE? 

A  Dozen  "Missions"  in 
Chicago  feed  without 
question  the  "down  and 
out"  man.  The  Chicago 
Woman's  Shelter  feeds 
the  hungry  woman  and 
child. 


The  Shelter  is  Feeding  ONE  HUNDRED  Underfed,  Thin 
Clothed  Public  School  Children  EVERY  NIGHT  at  Six 
O'clock.  These  meals  will  continue  until  May  1.  WE  NEED 
YOUR  HELP  and  NEED  IT  NOW. 

The  Shelter  cares  for  an  aggregate  average  of  over  Twenty 
Thousand  Women  and  Children  every  year. 

Open  to  Visitors  every  evening  (except  Sunday)  at  Six 
O'clock.    Come  over  and  see  our  work. 

Sincerely  yours, 
JEAN  T.  ZIMMERMANN,  M.D.,  Superintendent. 


MAIWA 
From  East  Somoliland 

In  the  past  five  years 
the  Shelter  has  cared  for 
Women  and  Children 
from  Every  State  in  the 
Union  and  from  Europe, 
Asia,  Africa  and  South 
America. 


en 


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